


The Soul Collector

by Hanatamago



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fellas is it gay to sell your soul to a hot ghost, Flirting, Fodlan Frights Exchange, Human!Lorenz, Light Angst, M/M, Rituals, Spirit!Claude, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatamago/pseuds/Hanatamago
Summary: It is a fool’s errand, most probably. Yes, by all odds, the old wisewomen at the markets have simply played a trick on him. They are probably cackling about his naivety now! Well, it is only but a day’s journey for their mocking satisfaction, if that is the case.He has no other options. No othergoodoptions, that is.So Lorenz rides north to the Crumbling Tower, home of the mythical Soul Collector.After a terrible harvest in Gloucester, Lorenz is desperate enough to bargain with the spirits for help. However, he quickly learns that this spirit is nothing like the legends say.Written for the Fodlan Frights exchange!
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56
Collections: Fodlan Frights Halloween Exchange 2020





	The Soul Collector

**Author's Note:**

> For [@BidulesTruc](https://twitter.com/BidulesTruc)!

Lorenz rides out of the downtrodden town long before the sun has set. If he’s to be at the Crumbling Tower by nightfall, then he had better get an early start. It wouldn’t do to be late. Not for a matter so important as this. The old tower of myth is a half day’s ride away, and if all is to go to plan, then he must be well acquainted with the tower by midnight. If he is not prepared, the spirit may reject him. Or worse, not appear at all.

It is a fool’s errand, most probably. Yes, by all odds, the old wisewomen at the markets have simply played a trick on him. They are probably cackling about his naivety now! Well, it is only but a day’s journey for their mocking satisfaction, if that is the case. 

He has no other options. No other _good_ options, that is. 

So Lorenz rides north to the Crumbling Tower, home of the mythical Soul Collector.

If its name evokes fear, that is because it is meant to. Lorenz has pored over every book on the spirit’s origins, most of which are little more than weathered notes bound together with fraying twine. Even the most superstitious townsfolk in the Gloucester territory regard it as little more than a legend. A tale written to scare little children into obedience, or some hallucination mistaken for something more - nothing _real_.

But there are accounts. Written accounts - texts that corroborate each other. The story is vague and incomplete, fraught with inconsistencies, but Lorenz does not think it false.

Many, many years ago (the legends do not say how many), a spirit of the forest - or an angered woodsman - emerged from the woods, enraged at the man who had cut down his heart tree - or burnt it - to build his tower. The man was no one of import, just some lord whose name was lost to time because he had done nothing worth remembering. His body was found rotting in the empty tower many days after - crumpled and bleeding from a spear-like branch thrust through his chest.

The details change. Some say it was a branch, others a knife, others still say a golden arrow pierced his heart. Whatever the case, his death was ugly enough to scare folk away from the tower long enough for rot to leave the air.

But every so often, tales of the Soul Collector return. They say it whisks away pure maidens and honorable knights alike in the night, luring them in with its fae wiles and dragging them into the eternal twilight. Its victims never return, nor do they want to. And when it has devoured them, it weaves their souls into its horrible cloak, flaunting their essence about to remind the trapped mortals of the fate they’ve met. Each of the victims, a further cost of atonement for the evils of man against the forest. Or so they say.

It makes little sense to Lorenz why a fae spirit would hunt mortals for a crime already punished. But then, if the legends are true, fae themselves make little sense at the best of times. It hardly matters. Lorenz does not need to fully understand the Soul Collector to make his bargain.

The stone tower looms before him, hauntingly empty and lightless. It does not beckon him forth - far from it. Lorenz would not be here if he did not have to be. He would not dabble with spirits so recklessly, but it is not his choice.

It is his duty.

Lorenz takes one last breath of the night air and settles his thoughts. One last breath as a free man. He forces himself through the splintering oak door. The air inside is stale and thick with the scent of dry, cracked parchment. A thick layer of dust settles over every surface in the room, from the wooden tables to the faded linen rugs. Day after day, the sun has cut a line through the windows, bleaching every bit of fabric in its scorching path. Thorny vines climb through a gash in the stone walls, invading the rooms as nature finally reclaims the tower. As it ought to.

He is dawdling. He is dragging his feet, and selfishly! Gloucester has not a moment to lose! With every moment, his people starve. They have no time for Lorenz to grapple with any second thoughts… 

It may still be a fool’s errand, but there is something about the tower that chills Lorenz right to his bones.

He brushes the dust off of a nearby candle lamp and sets it alight with a spark of magic. Though night has fallen, the half-moon shines through the windows, filling the empty tower rooms with pale light. The candle is a formality. Lorenz can hardly see any better, but it makes him feel safer, somehow. He takes a seat at an old oak desk in the cobwebbed remains of the study. Brushing the dust off of the seat seems to be a futile task, but Lorenz attempts it anyway.

Perhaps it is silly to care about something so trivial as dust stains when begging an audience from a bloodthirsty forest spirit, but if he is to have his soul devoured, he must look impeccable while doing so.

A frigid breeze blows through the window, sending Lorenz into shivers. He pulls his violet cloak closer around himself and grits his teeth as he settles into the dusty, tattered armchair.

_Hold fast, Lorenz. Breathe steadily now, for it won’t do to come apart in front of a revenant spirit._

The moon is beautiful tonight. Not whole, but perfect all the same. The air is crisp with the scents of fall and the chill of the nearing winter. It is calm. All things considered, it is not a bad place to die.

“Hey there.”

Lorenz gasps, shooting up from the desk. He pulls his arms in front of his chest, as though he could shield himself from the inevitable onslaught of cursed magic- 

“Two o’clock,” the voice speaks again, “And try not to scream, it gets old.”

Lorenz whirls around to his right, following the voice’s instructions to a once-empty armchair by the bookshelf. A mystical, glimmering spectre sits leisurely in the chair, watching him with a bemused expression.

“It-” Lorenz stammers, “it is not yet midnight!”

The spirit is oddly human-like.

“Lucky you, right?” the creature smirks. “Let’s say I got a little overeager, shall we?” 

And oddly handsome. 

_Goddess_ , no. What is he thinking?! Had the spirit already tangled its entrancing tendrils of magic into Lorenz’s mind?

Bright emerald eyes shine from the candlelit corner. Gilded leaves entwine into a simple, verdant crown resting in tresses of thick brown hair. He is dressed _quite_ immodestly. A satin robe of flowing autumn colors falls over his shoulder, covering a mere _half_ of his well-toned tan chest. Of course, he probably cannot feel the cold of winter, but it is still impractical! 

The fabric - the one made of _souls_ , Lorenz reminds himself - drapes over his back in a flowing cape, and the front tucks into nicely fitted russet breeches. Well, it is at least a relief to know that if his soul must be trapped in a garment for all eternity, it will at least be aesthetically pleasing.

He is charismatic - the legends said he would be. But Lorenz was not prepared for just how attractive the spirit would be. From the stories, he had expected deathly grey skin and hollow eyes burning with vengeance. Not his easy, flirtatious smirk, not the glowing warmth of his amber skin, and not how _very_ much like a man the creature looked. It’s too easy to pretend-

_No._

“Perhaps my own mind has begun to play tricks on me…” Lorenz murmurs. The creature laughs, then rises and steps over to the desk. “Perhaps I am hallucinating.”

Lorenz is prepared. He must be prepared, whatever the spirit tries.

“Don’t believe me, huh?” he - _it_ \- blows out the candle. “Is that proof enough, or do I have to start shaking the bookshelves for you.”

Lorenz shakes his head fervently. “No, no, that will… That will suffice.” He swallows thickly. “Are you the Soul Collector, then?” The creature leans over the desk, eyes full of mischief.

“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” his grin widens. He shows no pointed teeth, no glowing red eyes, just sunny features with a twist of prodding trickery. “Some have called me by that name.”

Goddess, he looks even better in the moonlight, without the harsh glare of the candle. Golden flecks shimmering in his skin, mimicking the warmth of life. He looks so… real, save for the slight transparency that betrays his unlife.

“If that is not your name, then what is?” Lorenz blurts out.

“Ha! Bold, too,” he chuckles, “Don’t your kind think it rude to ask for things without giving? You first, mortal. You have called upon me, after all.”

“That is true. Please forgive my impudence, Mighty Soul Collector.” He bows - the best he is able to from behind the desk - “I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, and I come seeking your aid.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You’ve come seeking aid from a creature your people call the Soul Collector?”

Lorenz nods, flushed with embarrassment.

“Gotta say, that sounds like a pretty bad plan, doesn’t it?” he laughs, “Well you must be just _desperate_ , then.”

Lorenz does not like the way the spirit’s voice deepens at that. He does _not_ like the way it sends sparks of heat bursting through his chest, because - as has previously been established - this _creature_ likely intends to eat him alive and weave his soul into a scarf.

“I am,” Lorenz admits, the words much too loud in the still air of the tower.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” the spirit smirks. “What’ll it be this time? Immortality? True love? Ooh, is it revenge?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I come to beg for the fate of our town.”

“How noble.” The spirit seems utterly unconvinced.

“Our crops began to perish before the harvest.” Lorenz continues, not paying any mind to his uninformed skepticism, “The weather has not been kind to us - others say it is a curse we brought upon ourselves. In any case, we cannot pay the price of imported grain, and the people have already begun to starve. I- it is my fault. We should have filled our stores when the grain was plentiful, but my father…” He takes a shaky breath, frustrated at the mere mention.

“Hey, it’s alright,” The spirit sets a hand on his shoulder. Lorenz cannot feel the weight of it, but the intent is clear all the same.

“Forgive me,” Lorenz says, “but I must ask you to consider my offer.”

“And what offer is that?” 

He is curious. By the way his eyes glitter, he is at the very least willing to consider. Lorenz must only hope that it is enough.

“If you would grant the town a harvest boon - if you would ensure that the people do not starve this winter, then I would offer you my soul.”

* * *

“I would offer you my soul,” the strange little mortal says, and Claude wonders if, at some point, he had started speaking a different language.

“Woah, there,” he says, “you don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do.” His eyes burn with a bright, violet defiance. “I am well aware of the consequences of such a pact. Should you choose to take my soul hostage, then I cannot refute your right to do so. Should you choose to kill me and devour my life essence, that is also to our terms.”

“Why?” Claude asks, genuinely baffled. Mortals are selfish, ugly creatures. He should know - he lived in harmony once. But in all the many years he has roamed the night since, Claude has never seen such reckless self-sacrifice. And for what? It is not the mortal’s fault that the winter winds blow harshly this year.

“It is a noble’s duty to protect his people. My father was not wise enough to plan for such a famine, and he is too proud to accept help from the other lords. Even now, he thinks such a loss of life is _‘inevitable’_.” Lorenz grits his teeth, “I cannot go to them in his stead, but… you are not beholden to such politics, great spirit.”

“No, I am not.” Claude shakes his head.

The noble sighs and paces over to the window, looking out at the half-moon.

He is not made out of the same essence as spirits, and yet his pale skin seems to glitter in the moonlight all the same. His violet hair shines with all the colors of twilight, cascading down his shoulders. The purple suits him, but not nearly as well as the crimson rose embroidered into his cloak.

“I know you must think me strange and foolish,” the mortal murmurs, “But I assure you, I will not go back on my word.”

There is a sadness in him. Something past duty, past guilt, and past grief. There is an uneasy stiffness about his movements - a thick facade that breaks only in the way his eyes gaze up at the moon. He curls towards the windowsill, hiding away from Claude as though it would mask his vulnerability. It does not.

It is not challenging to read this one’s mind. His doubts and fears bubble up so readily to the surface. But to read his true heart? Past his worries? That is a more challenging feat by far.

“Are you unhappy?” Claude asks. “In life, I mean. You must be - to give it up so easily.”

Claude steps closer. The mortal shifts, but he does not flinch in fear. No, his eyes are trained on the distance, deep in the facade of thought. In truth, his mind remains in the tower, rushing with thoughts of the mysterious spirit before him.

“Do you agree to the terms?” Lorenz asks, dodging the question. 

“Not yet,” Claude laughs, “I need to know what I’m getting, don’t I?”

Lorenz turns back towards him with a frown.

“As I’ve said, I would give you all myself. My soul,” he declares, heated and hollow all at once. “Whatever you wish to do with… that… you may.”

“Ha, hold your horses, gorgeous.” Claude winks. Lorenz bristles, bright scarlet painting over his pale cheeks.

“I did not mean anything so _untoward_ , I’ll have you know!” he snaps.

“Relax, I’m only teasing.”

“If it is not enough,” he hesitates, “I am afraid I have little else to offer you, Soul-”

“Claude,” he blurts out. “Just Claude is fine.” 

“Claude.” Lorenz nods. Though he turns back to the window, Claude can doesn’t miss the tiny, shimmering tears budding in the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, look, it’s probably enough,” he says, “but I’d like to know more about you first. I only collect the good ones, you know?” he jokes. The mortal smiles at that, and Claude feels oddly relieved by it.

* * *

A huffed laugh betrays Lorenz by spilling out into the air. “Do you doubt the quality of my soul?” Claude steps behind him. He is silent, but Lorenz feels the air shift as he moves closer.

“Maybe. Tell me about yourself,” Claude says, the chill of his voice hitting the curve of Lorenz’s neck. Lorenz’s hand shoots up to muffle his gasp, but it hardly helps. He _knows_ , doesn’t he?

“Ticklish?” the spirit laughs. “Or is there something more you want from me, my prickly rose?”

The spirit’s arm wraps around his chest. His spectral touch is _cold_ , like trails of ice tracing along his skin. His velvet cloak is hardly enough to keep him warm like this.

“Please,” Lorenz manages to breathe out, shuddering as the icy air seeps into his skin, “you mustn’t…”

“Has no one ever held you before, Lorenz?” Claude asks. Lorenz can hear the curved little smile in his voice without looking. Heat rushes to his cheeks. It’s true, but he would never admit such a thing! Not that there _was_ anything wrong with his inexperience, of course.

“I h-hardly see how that information would help your assessment of my offering,” Lorenz stammers. “I have not come to play games with you, Claude.” 

Claude hums a singsong little trill, clearly unconvinced. A patch of icy static blooms on his neck as the spirit presses his lips to the skin. A choked whine catches in the back of his throat. Lorenz leans into the touch, cold as it is. 

Goddess, he should not want this - at least, he should not have fallen to the spirit’s charms so readily.

Had Claude even charmed him in earnest? Lorenz did not feel the urge to abandon his life to follow Claude into the woods. He did not seem hopelessly infatuated - as alluring as the spirit was, his thoughts of Gloucester had not yet vanished. Were the Soul Collector to release him, he would doubtlessly ride back to the castle and never return to this cursed tower…

Would he return?

He does not have a choice - he will die here tonight - but if he did have one… would he return of his own volition? The spectre’s gaze prickles over his skin, and his terribly bright eyes send Lorenz’s heart aflutter. It is unsettling and intoxicating in equal measure. Lorenz hates it, and he hates that he cannot get _enough_ of it.

“I will grant your request.” Claude pulls away.

“What-” Lorenz sputters, “I haven’t told you anything of myself - how can you be sure?”

“Are you displeased?” the spirit cocks an eyebrow, “This is what you wanted, right? I’ve seen plenty.”

Lorenz blushes crimson. Was it really his inexperience that was so… _appealing_ to the spirit? He should scoff at that - at least, it should bother him, knowing that the spirit revels in flustering him. Nevertheless, he is grateful.

“Thank you,” he whispers, dropping to his knees before the nature spirit.

“No need for all that.” Claude chuckles. “Have you brought a blade with you?”

Lorenz nods. He has prepared for this,

“Good, good. Pick a book from the shelf,” he points, “Any one that you like, doesn’t matter.”

If his soul is to be trapped within the confines of some clustered pages, he had better choose wisely. Lorenz pokes through the shelf, scanning the spines for interesting titles. Perhaps he should enshroud himself in the events of history, or be immortalized among the pages of some great novel.

Lorenz’s palm brushes against a thin leather notebook. It’s sheer impulse that draws him to flip through the pages - nothing logical.

Lines of melodic poetry dance over the parchment - it was a creative journal of some sort, once. Lorenz finds no name, no mark of its owner, but the words left behind are beautiful. Precise, perfect language paints pictures of the seasons as they change, of matters of the heart, of all manner of things Lorenz has tried to put to words so often himself. There are blank pages, too. Poems not yet written - space to create.

Perhaps his father would scorn him for not choosing a book on kings and other powerful men and all their tactical deeds, but his father is not here.

“This one,” Lorenz utters, looking to Claude for approval.

“Open it. Find an empty page.” The spirit stares into him, appraising, but not cold.

No, not at all cold. His gaze is hot on Lorenz’s skin - hungering, perhaps only for his soul, but Lorenz cannot help but shiver.

“Will I know?” the question leaves his mouth half-formed. Claude cocks an eyebrow.

“I-” Lorenz hesitates. It’s a silly question, especially for an undead spirit like him. “Will I know when you…”

“When I claim your soul, you mean.”

Lorenz nods mutely.

Claude shrugs. “Do you want to know?”

It is a fair question… Does Lorenz want to know, truly? Would he rather be a mindless servant of the spirit’s will, or would he rather keep his wits, forced to witness whatever Claude decided to subject him to, knowing all the while that it was he himself who had begged the spirit to take him?

There is no right answer.

“I don’t know.” Lorenz mumbles, resigned to his fate, “I shall entrust the decision to you, then.” Claude nods.

Lorenz flips through the notebook, deciding where to leave the very last mark of his mortal life. It’s an unexpectedly difficult decision to make, simple as it seems. It hardly feels proper to take the first unfilled page - to follow such beautiful poetry with a crude pact - it’s unthinkable. But to stuff himself in the back… Perhaps to bleed between the words themselves would be the most fitting.

“It won’t hurt,” Claude says, staring out into the moonlit forest. “I’ll make sure of that.”

With each passing moment, the spirit begins to look more… real. His form glows still, but in the dim light, Lorenz could almost mistake him for a mortal. His skin, tan as cherry wood, looks perfectly soft and warm, but Lorenz knows how it holds the chill of the afterlife. Even after feeling Claude’s touch firsthand, the sight is still nearly enough to fool his senses.

Lorenz settles on a poem about the beauty of wildflowers, however brief they bloom. It is tempting to pick a more meaningful poem - something about love and loss - but to be trapped among such a poem for eternity? Lorenz settles for the flowers.

“Looks like it’s just about midnight,” Claude hums and steps back to the desk. “Cut your palm. Nothing too deep, just enough to draw blood.”

Lorenz does, flinching as the steel bites into his flesh. It does not hurt - just as Claude said - but the chilly numbness is just as unsettling.

“Press your hand to the page,” the spirit whispers. His cold, spectral digits land between Lorenz’s own, guiding his motions. “Repeat after me.”

“ _Soul of air, body of earth_ ,” Claude speaks in the old tongue - the languages of elves and fae spirits, once spoken by man, too. He has learned enough from his research to understand the meaning, but to speak it? Lorenz awkwardly wraps his tongue around the syllables. It’s a butchered pronunciation - even he knows it, but Claude just smiles, amused.

“ _By the grace of the moon and the light of the sun_ ,” Claude continues, Lorenz echoing every word, “ _With the stars as witness, two become one._ ” 

The chill of Claude’s hand ripples through his skin, slowly burning into a pleasant warmth. The moon rises over the tower as midnight strikes. And then… nothing. 

Lorenz braces for the magic to unwind him - to bring him to sleep or to burn him into pure essence, but the spell never seems to come. Is that… all? Or has Lorenz messed up the ritual?

A hand lands on Lorenz’s chest, pushing him up against the bookshelf, and Claude’s lips cover his own.

Lorenz acts before he can think, desperately clinging to the spirit’s shoulders. His touch is warm now - positively _scorching_ against the cold night air. While his too-cautious mind is still sluggishly sorting out ‘consequences’ and ‘reality’, Lorenz’s body falls so easily into desperate want. This is not the spirit’s doing, that much he knows. No, this foolishness is all of Lorenz’s making, and it feels so terribly wonderful to crumble.

The spirit - _Claude_ \- laughs, perhaps at his eagerness, but Lorenz hardly has the presence of mind to care. He breathes in the scent of him - pine needles and sharp cinnamon - and leans into the stray hand tangling into his hair. No doubt Claude will ruin it, but he can brush it out again later. When his mind does finally catch up, it only stalls to be mortified by the soft noises Claude pulls out of him as his hand slips under Lorenz’s tunic. Goddess, he can nearly taste the smirk on Claude’s lips.

Claude pulls away, panting. “You can leave now if you want to. I’ll still grant your wish, promise.” He ruffles Lorenz’s hair, “Consider your payment collected.”

A mere kiss as payment? He must be joking! But Lorenz spots not a hint of trickery in his expression.

“A-and if I stay?” Lorenz stutters. He has no hope of hiding his eagerness, but he tries all the same. “Would you…”

Claude grins.

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun to write! It's always nice to explore some new pairings, and I never would have done a ghost AU without being inspired by your wishlist! I hope you enjoyed it <3


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